Change of Pace
by daymarket
Summary: Dean dreamed about Sam's fall into the pit every night, except for the time when Castiel appeared by the lake.


**Title**: Change of Pace

**Pairing**: Cas/Dean schmoop

**Rating**: So very PG.

**Spoilers**: Up to 5x22 "Swan Song."

**Notes**: HC Bingo prompt: "Nightmares." Utterly unbeta'd. Also, my first SPN fic. Yay!

**Summary**: Dean dreamed about Sam's fall into the pit every night, except for the time when Castiel appeared by the lake.

X

There are a lot of things that Dean Winchester dreamed about at night. It was almost as if in his dreams, all the fucked-up things in the dark decided to take a little romp through his skull. When he found out about Dad's deal, it was images of his father burning in hell. After his own deal, he had more than enough nightmare material to go for _years_, what with Alistair and the hellhounds and oh yeah, that bitch Ruby. But Sam, the eternal image of Sammy falling into that pit?

That pretty much topped them all.

He didn't sleep so much as toss and turn. Lisa offered him her bed, which was nice, but it turned out that he just wasn't quite ready for snuggles yet. Lisa's breath next to his and the way her hand slid across his stomach had sent bile rising up into his throat, and the next thing he knew he was stalking out of bed and heading for the porch and the cool night air.

God. What he wanted more than anything was to be stuck in the front seat of the Impala, his head squished against the window and Sam sprawled in the seat next to him like the giant sasquatch he was. Lisa was a great woman; he was lucky she'd taken him in. But how the fuck was he supposed to live an apple-pie life when Sam was stuck in a goddamn hole with the devil in him?

He heard footsteps on the porch behind him. "Sorry," he muttered to his hands, knowing that it wasn't enough. "I just…"

He trailed off, not sure how to finish that sentence. For a moment, the floorboards creaked as Lisa deliberated on whether or not to come out to him. He felt an immense and uncharitable relief when she finally said, "Take as long as you need," before retreating into the house. The nice, American suburban house with her nice kid and nice neighbors and nice community. Yeah.

Dean took a deep breath and let it out slowly, wondering what the fuck he was doing with his life. He couldn't live off Lisa's charity forever, after all. Perhaps tomorrow he should go out to town and get a job or something, as a mechanic. Or maybe Bobby would hire him. Singer Salvage Yard could always use an extra hand. But no, Bobby was off enjoying his newfound legs; the yard was probably closed for the time being.

And that left Cas…

Cas, that sanctimonious son of a bitch, hadn't showed his face since he gave Dean the whole "you got what you wanted" speech in the Impala. Fuck that feathery bastard. He was probably enjoying being the big cheese up in Heaven, ordering the other angels around and beating the shit out of demons. And hell, why shouldn't he? He hadn't lost a brother. (Okay, technically he had, but the whole angel family was so fucked up anyway it wasn't as if one or two would be missed.) He had a purpose and the world was probably better off for it, so there.

Damn him anyway.

Dean sighed, rubbing his temples with his fingers. He was bone-tired, but he knew if he went back to sleep he'd be replaying that final clip over and over again like a damn slow-motion movie: Sam, his face raised to the sky as Michael tackled them into the pit. The hole closing, sealing Sam inside forever. Again and again and again. He almost preferred Alistair, and how fucked up was that?

"Dean?"

Dean almost pulled a gun before he stopped himself. Ben was peeking outside the door, his hair mussed in a way that made Dean's heart clench painfully inside his chest. "What're you doing out here?" Ben asked, and oh god, it was like dealing with little Sammy all over again. "Come back inside. It's cold."

Dean forced a smile, hoping against hope that it looked real. "It's not that bad," he tried, going for some of his old nonchalance. "Go back to sleep, Ben, you have school tomorrow."

Ben didn't listen, of course—instead, he stepped out onto the porch and crouched down tentatively next to Dean. "Was it a nightmare?" he asked, and Dean had to smile a bit. Lisa tiptoed around the subject while Ben went straight for the jugular. Kids.

"Nah," Dean said. "Just, you know. Thinking."

"I had nightmares," Ben said thoughtfully. "After you saved us from that…thing. I mean, I wasn't scared at the time, but afterwards I was. That wasn't fun."

"Yeah?" Dean asked, a little surprised even though he knewshe shouldn't be. Dean started shooting things when he was, hell, five or six, but it was a while before he really believed that those things in the dark could be killed. And even knowing that, sometimes they die and get right back up. That's enough to give anyone a nightmare.

"Yeah," Ben said, giving a small shrug.

Ben was a little too old to be hugging people as easily as he did when Dean first met him—he'll be hitting puberty soon, Dean thought with a small pang. Still, Ben did reach out and give him a small pat on the shoulder. "Want me to make you some hot chocolate?" he said at last, a little awkwardly. "That always helps me sleep."

Dean laughed at that, shaking his head. "No thanks," he said, pushing Ben gently in the small of his back. "You go on inside. I'll be okay."

Ben left, albeit reluctantly. Dean continued to sit out on the porch, looking up at the cloudy sky. Yeah, Ben was a cute kid. Not like Sam at that age, but still. Close.

With a sigh, he pulled off his jacket and spread it on the ground as a makeshift blanket. It was cool at the time of night and the porch was hardly soft, but the setting was familiar. How many times had he and Sam been unable to afford a motel and decide to hell with it, to just bank it out in the wild? It wasn't as good as the Impala, but it was miles above Lisa's soft bed and her warm body next to his. It was familiar.

He made himself as comfortable as he could, threw an arm across his face and closed his eyes. The crickets kept up a soft rhythm, and within minutes he was asleep.

x

"I'm dreaming, aren't I?"

The dock was exactly as he remembered it: the slight tang in the air, the cool morning breeze and the firm weight of the fishing rod in his hands. Dean didn't have to look around to know that there was a familiar figure in a trenchcoat just behind him, as calm and steady as the soldier he was. "Yes," Castiel confirmed a beat after he'd reached this conclusion.

"You've got a lot of nerve, showing up now," Dean informed him, but he couldn't seem to muster up enough anger behind the words. Here on this tranquil lake, nothing could get him angry, especially since it meant he didn't have to watch Sammy falling for the umpteenth time. "It's been almost a month, you ass."

"I've been busy," Castiel said, sounding only slightly apologetic. "The legions of heaven and hell are in disarray, and I—"

"Yeah, yeah, spare me," Dean muttered. "I'm out of it. Heaven, hell, this whole Apocalypse shit. Keep me out of it, I'm retired now."

"For good?"

Dean shrugged noncommittally. "Maybe. What's it to you?"

"You should be happy," Cas said.

Dean froze for a moment, not sure exactly what he was hearing. Then, apparently his body decided to move without permission from his brain, because the next thing he knew he was on his feet, the fishing rod dropped and the chair overturned. "Happy?" he sputtered at Cas, who tilted his head in an infuriatingly calm way. "How the hell am I supposed to be happy, Cas? My brother's good as dead. Sure, I stopped the goddamn Apocalypse, but Sam's gone!"

"You saved many lives," Cas said. "Surely that is commendable?"

Dean shook his head, the anger draining out of him just as suddenly as it came. "I didn't save the one that counts," he muttered.

Cas was quiet.

"You goddamn angels," Dean continued bitterly, shoving his hands into his pockets. "Always fucking with our lives. You're bigger picture guys, aren't you? Always for the greater good."

"This…Lisa," Cas said after a moment. "You're not happy with her?"

Dean snorted. "Lisa…Lisa's great. A good woman. A great woman, actually, that I have absolutely nothing in common with. And Ben, he's awesome, but I can't just waltz in and be his dad, you know? And I don't know if I can ever be. It's all so…"

"Like Sam?" Cas suggested quietly. "He reminds you of Sam, doesn't he?"

Dean narrowed his eyes, glancing at him sideways. "Stop reading my mind."

"I'm not. You're just very predictable."

"Bitch," Dean said automatically, kicking at the fallen fishing rod. He tilted his head back to the watery dawn light and sighed. "You're supposed to say 'jerk,' jerk."

He could envision Cas tilting his head even more at this point, giving him that standard _I don't understand your strange human ways_ look. "It's a thing," Dean said unhelpfully as the silence stretched on.

"Oh." Cas said. Then: "Jerk."

Dean smiled humorlessly and turned his head to look at Cas. "Okay. A little faster next time. Ready? Bitch."

"Jerk," Cas said readily, although confusion was rampant in his features. He paused. "What next?"

"Next?" Dean said. He paused. "I guess we…move on. You know, with the conversation. What were we talking about again, anyway?"

"Ben's resemblance to Sam," Cas said.

"Oh. Right," Dean said, waving a hand dismissively. "Next topic."

"It makes you uncomfortable to discuss Sam," Cas observed.

"No shit, Sherlock," Dean said.

"I don't understand that reference."

"Good. Let's talk about something else. What've you been up to lately? Does being the sheriff give you any perks? Any hot angel chicks up there, you know, that kind of thing?"

"I thought you said you were disinterested in matters of heaven," Cas said.

"I am. But not in hot angel chicks. So come on, spill. What's up?"

"There are no poultry in heaven, hot angelic or any other kind," Cas said bemusedly. "There is merely chaos. Everyone has their own agenda and the ways they wish to implement it. Some call for peace between heaven and hell, yet what kind of peace has yet to be decided."

"So you guys aren't going to go down to hell and smite the shit out of every demon you see? I thought you guys loved smiting."

"Our numbers are not adequate to destroy the forces of hell," Cas said. "We must make peace or risk being overrun."

"So who's running hell now that—uh—"

"No one," Cas said, picking up the slack. "A few leaders are emerging, but no one has picked up the reins yet. Some are saying that perhaps an angel needs to take command of hell as the Morningstar did, but no angel wants the mantle. It's very difficult."

"Yeah, man, I feel for you," Dean said, trying hard to keep the sarcasm to a minimum. As Cas raised an eyebrow at him, Dean gave a not-entirely-apologetic shrug. "All I'm saying is, it's tough times all around."

"Thank you for your concern," Cas said, and Dean had to laugh at the snippiness in Cas' tone. "It means a great deal to me."

Dean paused in the middle of a sarcastic sentence he was about to make and looked at Cas for a moment. That last sentence hadn't been snippy; it sounded sincere. "Right," he said at last, dropping the sarcasm. "Well. I'll, uh, keep that in mind."

And apparently make no sense, but Cas didn't seem to mind.

"So. Uh. What're you doing here?" Dean said after a moment had passed. "I mean, if running heaven is so busy…"

Cas gave a half-shrug, refusing to look Dean in the eye. "It's tiring work," he said at last. "I thought I should…"

"Visit an old pal?" Dean said a little dryly. "Hey, man, that's nothing to be ashamed of."

Cas didn't answer for a moment, his head bowed. Finally, he said, "I mourned Sam Winchester."

Dean paused, trying to think of the best thing to say. _Fuck off _was a classic, or maybe he could go with, _he's my brother, not yours_. In the end, he settled for a, "Oh. That's nice."

"It's not nice," Cas said, and Dean heard a faint tone of bitterness in his voice. "We are not meant to mourn each other, angels. We are soldiers. If one falls in battle, there is always another. When I betrayed Anna, I felt regret. When I thought you would say yes, I…"

"Beat the shit out of me?" Dean said, trying for some of his old humor.

"Yes," Cas said, looking directly at him. "I rejoiced when you proved me otherwise, Dean."

"Oh, yeah, regular hallelujah. You sounded ecstatic over the phone," Dean said.

"I was," Cas agreed, lowering his gaze again. "For a while. Until Sam said yes."

Dean cleared his throat. He was not going to start crying like a girl, goddammit, he'd shed enough tears over this whole stupid thing. "Right," he said gruffly. "Because you were just weeping in the car, you douchebag."

Cas gave a small shrug. "Duty comes first. That's what we are taught." He paused. "For a while, at least, that adage works."

"So what. You're here to cry on my shoulder?" Dean said roughly. "Sorry, I don't do girl moments. Go hug Zach or something. Oh wait, he's dead."

Cas' eyes narrowed, and for a moment Dean thought that Cas was going to punch him out. He braced himself, knowing that he had no chance against an angel in a one-on-one, but hell if he was going to go down just like that. "I have no desire to hug Zachariah," Cas said, his voice a low growl. "Or Anna, or Uriel, or any of my myriad brothers that fell in battle."

Dean swallowed. "Then what?"

Abruptly, all the air went out of Cas—the faint sting of ozone faded from the air, and the soft humming power vanished. Cas sighed, and Dean got the weirdest impression that Cas was folding his wings shut, the feathers closing neatly against his back. "I don't know," Cas said, sounding exhausted. "Perhaps it was foolhardy to come."

Dean waited, but Cas seemed to be waiting for something as he didn't pull an angel vanishing act. "Hey, look," he said awkwardly. "You don't…hell, I don't know. I'm not a psychologist. But—you don't have to go."

Cas glanced at him sideways. Dean blinked for a moment, startled—Cas' wings had appeared again, just for a tiniest moment—they were curved furtively over Cas' shoulder, and he was peeking almost shyly out from behind the great black feathers. "Dude," Dean said, tentatively reaching a hand out. "I can see your wings."

Cas looked embarrassed for all of two seconds before the mirage wings disappeared entirely. "No, you can't," he contradicted.

"Well, I mean, not _now_, but I could," Dean said. "You know. Great big black flappy things."

"They are not 'flappy things,'" Cas said a little huffily, and Dean grinned at the indignation in his voice. "They are angelic wings. No human can see them."

"I saw yours, the first time in the barn," Dean said.

"That's because I let you. Normally, they are invisible." Cas tucked his hands into his pockets, hunching over slightly.

"Dude, they're not ugly or anything," Dean said. "They're actually, you know, kind of pretty. I mean, I always thought angel wings would be huge and white and shit, but huge and black's pretty awesome too. They're nothing to be ashamed of."

Cas didn't say anything for a moment. Finally, he straightened up a bit and made a small, almost embarrassed shrug. "Oh."

"I saw Zach's wings after he died. They were kinda small. And way uglier than yours," he added in a bolt of inspiration, wondering mentally just what the hell he was doing. Like angels needed ego-stroking in the wing department.

…except maybe that they did, because Cas looked, if not a little bit happy, then at least not as sulky. "I see," he said. Then: "The archangels have the greatest wings of all, for they are God's favored."

Dean raised an eyebrow. "Really? Yeah, I remember Raphael's. They were electric, weren't they?"

"That was a mortal representative of his wings, yes," Cas said. "As far as your mind could see them."

"What would happen if I saw the real thing?" Dean asked.

"Your eyes would burn from their sockets and your brain would liquefy," Cas said calmly, and Dean winced. "Divinity is not meant to be seen directly by mortality."

"Yeah, well, mortality isn't so bad, once you get down to it," Dean muttered. "We're the ones who stopped your half-assed Apocalypse."

"Yes, well, I'm sure that many of the higher ranks were less than pleased with that decision," Cas said dryly. "Thus enforcing the impression that mortality was a bad choice."

"They can go stuff it," Dean said, waving his hand dismissively. "I've already lost Sam. I could give a shit about their feelings."

"As they do for yours," Cas said with a small sigh. "No one has time to rest these days, what with anarchy above and below."

The weariness that lurked earlier crept back into Cas' voice, as if reminded of its rightful place. Awkwardly, Dean picked up the chair he'd overturned earlier and sat back down in it. "So," he said finally. "You're here for some downtime, huh?"

"Downtime…yes," Cas said after a moment. "It is peaceful here, a quiet that is found nowhere else."

Dean snorted. "Yeah, well, you got lucky," he said. "Every night for the past month I've been dreaming about Sam falling down that pit. I don't know how you caught this intermission, but you sure know how to time your visits."

"This is not coincidence," Cas said quietly. "I hoped to bring you some peace as well."

"You're creating this?" Dean asked, gesturing at the calm lake around them, a far cry from the turmoil of the last battleground. "I thought this was _my_ dream."

"Is it an unpleasant change?" Cas inquired, his voice holding just a shred of worry.

Dean looked at him slowly. Cas was staring over the lake, determinedly not looking at Dean. "It's…nice," Dean conceded finally. "You know. A change of pace."

"That's good, then," Cas said, his shoulders relaxing.

"Yeah," Dean agreed as he picked up the fishing pole from where he'd dropped it. "I guess."

A few more minutes ticked by in silence, broken only by the rustle of wind. In the dream, the sun was rising, casting a rosy glow over still waters.

"Want to try?" Dean said at last, poking Cas in the side. Cas looked at him, surprised. Dean offered him the fishing pole, as of yet undisturbed by any fish. Hell, he didn't even know it had bait on it. But this was his dream, right? So…hook, line, sinker. And bait. There. "Give it a shot."

Cas stared at him as he always did, but also as if Dean had grown a second head. "I'm not sure what to do," he admitted finally.

"To tell you the truth, neither am I," Dean said. "I haven't fished in years. Let's just wing it, okay?"

"Okay," Cas said as took the fishing pole as if it was made of gold. He grasped it carefully with both hands and looked to Dean for approval.

"Good enough," Dean said. "Let's do this."

X

**I finally got around to writing HC Bingo! Yay me. **


End file.
